Hubby needs a goal to motivate him to exercise. He gets bored easily, so just running doesn't do it for him. He has to run, bike AND swim. Nut job.
So after an exhaustive search of our bookshelves, he pulled out the triathlon training book. (Note: I had to find the darn thing. If something gets put away, he cannot find it. It's like man law #45, and applies to car keys, shoes, dress pants, jackets, toothpaste...)
After one night of stretching and strength training, Hubby decided I needed to join him in the festivities. Me and my creaking shoulders, cracking ankles, weak knees and aching back. Nah, I don't need exercise.
There are no triathlons in my future, I can tell you that. My lungs seize up at the thought of jogging down the block. But I can be a good cheerleader wifey.
So I agreed to his plan. I will regret that decision in the morning when I try to sit up to get out of bed. And walk into the bathroom. And then down the stairs.
Crack. Ow. Crack. Ow.
You get the idea.